


A Rather Distinguished Guest

by heathtrash



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Cats, Edwardian Period, F/F, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, Hackle Summer Trope Challenge 2020, Hair, Journey, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Trains, retreat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25522612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathtrash/pseuds/heathtrash
Summary: 1905. Hecate Hardbroom is boarding a steam train on her way to her late mother's cottage-turned-guest house, where she works as a housekeeper - but she ends up sharing a train compartment with a mysterious stranger who turns out to be not quite such a stranger after all.
Relationships: Amelia Cackle | Ada Cackle/Hardbroom
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32
Collections: The Hackle Summer Trope Challenge





	A Rather Distinguished Guest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariel_manto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel_manto/gifts).



> the idea for this came from a collaborative headcanon with @ariel_manto, so i thought it would be the perfect gift for their birthday!!

It was a cool afternoon in early summer, and a fine mist of rain had beaded over the close-fitting sleeves of her jacket. The roof, supported by green-painted wrought iron pillars, had provided a little shelter while she waited; upon her walk to the station, the drizzle had wafted its way underneath her umbrella, rendering her use of it rather in vain.

The station clock tolled five o’clock. The train had not long since pulled smoothly up next to the platform, and a bustle of people—mostly men in travelling clothing—filtered this way and that across Hecate’s path. A steady trail of steam wheezed from the smokestack of the shiny black locomotive. The carriages had gold framing the windows, which was rather striking against the burgundy paint.

Hecate joined the throng attempting to board, and cleared her throat pointedly as a dawdling gentleman lingered a little too long, mid-conversation with another gentleman who was clearly not boarding, in front of her as they waited to alight. At the other door, passengers were already pouring on. Hecate worried that she would not be able to have the privacy she so desperately craved—and glared into the back of the offending man’s hat until he ended his chat.

Finally, after breathing out her exasperation through her nose, Hecate mounted the step to the train, suitcase pressing into one gloved hand, and a closed basket hooked over the other arm, brazenly ignoring the attendant who made as if to help her with it. She was more than capable of coping on her own. As her eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the train, she made her way down the carriage in an attempt to find an empty compartment. It was certainly a challenge, given the fact that she had been delayed by the man who flagrantly disregarded the social mores of not holding up a queue—but if at all possible, she would prefer to have a more private carriage for at least a small part of her journey. 

Finding the carriage full, and the one after that also full, Hecate resigned herself to heading towards the Ladies Only carriages at the quieter end of the train. She had thought these an insult to her independence, being reserved for ‘unaccompanied’ ladies—and resented the idea that ladies could be ‘accompanied’ or ‘unaccompanied’, rather than go freely about their business—but perhaps it would be nice to spend the journey out of the company of men.

One of the Ladies Only carriages already had several women within, but the second one she peered in had just one other passenger—whom, she could see through the grime-clouded glass, was attempting to lift her suitcase up onto the luggage rack. The small pair of round spectacles perched on her nose were slipping down with the effort of it. She had it above shoulder-height, but it most certainly did not reach, and the angle was all wrong. Her diminutive height was against her—and she looked as though she were about to mount her foot upon the plush purple upholstered bench seat below the rack. Hecate knew at that moment she must intervene for this woman’s dignity.

Hecate pushed the compartment door open, and setting her luggage down, approached from behind. The woman must not have heard her entering, for she gave a little “Oh—!” of surprise as a pair of confident hands bore the suitcase up and safely into the rack—it was incredibly heavy and slightly bulging, though well-made enough that it withstood the strain of being asked to carry more than it ought to. She almost caught a glimpse of the woman’s name on the tag on its handle before she tore her gaze away—it would be impolite to be caught looking at such a thing, and by the manner of her dress and the finely made suitcase, Hecate gathered that this woman was of a higher social standing than herself.

The woman wore a fine travelling suit of deep red with dusky pink braiding, which contrasted with the brilliant blue eyes shining from behind the lenses of her spectacles. Her arms emerged from the elbow-length sleeves and ended in delicate gloves.

If Hecate’s assistance surprised her—perhaps she was even more surprised to see that Hecate was not a tall male train attendant, but was, in fact, a tall woman—for she blinked several times before breaking into the warmest smile Hecate had ever had the delight of seeing.

“You quite surprised me there,” the woman said. Her voice was musical and pleasant to the ear, and Hecate found herself both warming to and finding intrigue in this character. “Thank you ever so much.”

“You are quite welcome,” Hecate responded. “It is one advantage of being unusually tall.”

“You are quite handsomely tall. Would you mind awfully if—” The woman gestured to a hat box that had been previously out of view on the seat.

“Not in the slightest,” Hecate said softly, feeling a quiver in her chest like a sputtering candle at the observation that she was _handsomely tall_ , and obliged. The hat box was comparatively feather-weight, and she easily nestled it in next to the suitcase.

She was an older woman—possibly in her early fifties, were Hecate to chance a guess. Her hair was a pale red, puffed up under a large hat perched high and neatly atop it, plumed with a pale pink ostrich feather that matched the braiding upon her bodice, and drooped magnificently. It was highly impractical for travel, but—with a slight inward smile—Hecate thought that quite enchanting. Perhaps she was the sort of person who would not let that get in the way of her self-expression.

“Thank you again, my dear,” the woman beamed at her.

“My pleasure,” Hecate responded, confused but not objecting to the familiarity with which she was being addressed.

The woman made as if to sit down, but stopped herself. Her eyes widened. “Is that a—?”

Hecate looked to where the woman was pointing, at Hecate’s basket on the seat behind them. “A cat? Yes. Do you mind?”

“No, no, not at all! I was simply surprised,” she chuckled.

Appearing from the dark interior of the basket, Morgana rubbed her face against the holes in the wickerwork door, exposing a glimpse of a white fang. Hecate fondly rubbed her finger against the small bit of her head she could reach—more for Morgana’s benefit than her own, since she was wearing gloves and could not feel her silky soft fur.

The woman took her seat by the large window, and looked out at the people on the opposite side of the platform. Hecate stood to put her own suitcase onto the rack opposite—and at that moment, the door opened to reveal a young train conductor, weak-chinned and gawkish.

“Apologies for the delay. Everything all right for you, Miss?” he asked the woman, but his eyes widened as they fell on Hecate. Standing frozen where she was, she suddenly had the feeling she was not supposed to be there, which was confirmed by the _Reserved_ sign he was holding in his thin hands.

“Yes, yes,” replied the woman, smiling that wonderful smile. “My companion here has helped me with my luggage quite admirably.”

 _Companion, was she?_ Hecate thought. She realised that the woman must be excusing her presence, and decided to keep her mouth shut on the matter.

He fitted the _Reserved_ sign to the door, and placed a small hand bell on the upholstered seat, before straightening up. “Anything I can bring you?”

“No, thank you. That will be all.”

“Very well. Enjoy your journey. If there’s anything you need, ring the bell.”

Hecate’s eyes shifted to the door and back awkwardly. There was evidently something she had missed—some social code that ought to have kept her from entering this compartment. It had been only too fortunate to find one with just one other passenger. Perhaps she had turned away so many others, on account of this being her reserved compartment. That would explain why the other Ladies Only compartment was so full. “I am terribly sorry—I feel as though I have intruded upon your privacy.”

The woman shook her head, the ostrich feather on her hat shimmering in the light. “It is an intrusion most welcome, I assure you. You and your cat may stay as long as you please, for your gracious assistance.”

Hecate still felt as though she ought to leave, but it would seem rude now, after an invitation had been extended. Yet now she knew for certain that this woman was _definitely_ above her station. She sat, careful to not position herself directly opposite the woman, even though she would have preferred the seat by the window to allay the sense that she was shut in a metal box, propriety encouraged her to insist upon allowing the woman her own space. She straightened up and folded her hands neatly in her lap, intent on being at the very least well-mannered, even if she could not be considered well-bred. 

“Are you both travelling somewhere nice?”

Hecate wondered for a moment at her use of the word _both_ , before she realised the woman was including Morgana in the query—which seemed to mark her as something of an eccentric. She considered whether housekeeping for guests at her late mother’s cottage by the coast counted as ‘nice’. For Morgana, whose only occupation would be to fend off any unwanted freeloading rodent lodgers, it would be quite the adventure. She did not begrudge her summer employment, but it could be hard work, even with her maid Mildred to help with the laundry and cooking. “It will be a break from the usual, certainly. And yourself?”

“I am staying in a guest house for some part of the summer. After that, I’m not sure. Wherever the wind blows that day,” she said breezily.

Hecate smiled politely in response, struck even more by the gulf of class between them. She could not recall the last time she had the freedom or finance to spend a summer in idleness or chasing whims. It was funny that they should both be going towards guest houses for quite different reasons. For a moment, Hecate considered what a strange providence it would be if this woman were to be staying at _her_ guest house—but no—that would be quite far-fetched. That sort of fanciful thing only happened in novels.

Hecate dragged her eyes away from the woman’s high collar, where she had only just realised that she had been admiring the way the scalloped lace encircled her neck when the train whistle startled her, blowing low and loud—they were ready to be off. 

The train chugged forwards, and built up speed gradually, until the station was but a memory lapsing behind them, and they began to fly past gardens and houses. The woman smiled as she looked out of the window—Hecate discreetly followed suit and could see a couple of children racing through a field alongside the train, waving their handkerchiefs at the travellers. Hecate turned to the volume she had brought in her satchel, eager to distract herself from the intriguing stranger, and set a notebook in her lap for note-taking. Though her term had just ended, she was eager to keep up with her reading. It would not do to let her mind become foggy with housework and have to resume her studies in September with an empty head. Hecate found running a household hopelessly tiring and would much rather keep her mind keen with a continued effort to engage with her field of interest.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hecate spied a movement—the woman swinging her feet, that did not quite reach the floor, to some inaudible music. With the way that her skirts fell, Hecate caught a glimpse of the buttons trailing up the side of her fine boots—but flicked her eyes back to her page, and jotted down a quick note in the notebook in her lap.

“May I ask—” the woman began, her voice breaking through Hecate’s concentration, “which book is that, that it has you so absorbed? It must be quite fascinating for you to be taking all those notes.” In truth, she had not been very successful in her endeavour to commit her mind to the work.  
“Villette, by Charlotte Brontë. I am a scholar at the University of A—.”

“How lovely! You must have just broken up for the summer. What are you reading there?”

“Literature,” Hecate replied, indicating the book.

“Of course you are,” the woman chuckled at her mistake, and shook her head. “It’s a wonderful thing, bettering oneself with study. I wish I was clever enough to apply myself to academics.”

Hecate frowned at this, and lowered the book. “If it isn’t impertinent, you seem a great deal more clever than some of the pompous men who lecture us.”

“Men often like to think they are useful,” the woman replied. It was a careful comment, somewhere between criticism and diplomacy, and evidently the product of a mind well-learned in the art of conversation.

Hecate agreed with a silent nod. The conversation seemed to be on the verge of lapsing, as she did not particularly know how to enquire after the woman’s occupation, given her class—and felt increasingly awkward as she realised she had not asked her name. She turned back to Villette, but it was not long before she found herself interrupted once more.

“Look—can you see? Such lovely horses,” the woman pointed to the window. 

It was as though the woman were determined to not let Hecate read any more of her Brontë. She had to shuffle herself over to the window to see that there was indeed a field of majestic creatures in a field under a brightening sky, since the rain appeared to have run its course. The woman’s child-like glee over the horses was charming indeed, as was her impulse to share it with her.

Hecate wondered if she ought to move back to her original seat, as she was now knee-to-knee with the woman and thought it perhaps an intimacy too far for their level of acquaintance, but the woman paid no heed—she merely sighed happily as she watched the landscape skip by.

“You don’t mind if I ring for a bite to eat, do you?”

“Not at all,” Hecate responded.

The woman reached over for the little brass bell with the wooden handle, and rang it delicately. The young conductor from earlier appeared shortly, removing his cap in the presence of the two ladies.

“What may I do for you, Miss Cackle?”

Hecate’s heart shot up to her throat. Miss _Cackle_? Had she heard that correctly?

“I wonder—I think it is a little early for the trolley, but—might I trouble you for some refreshments?”

“Of course, Miss Cackle. Was there something in particular you wanted?”

It _was_ Miss Cackle. Hecate trembled slightly as she discreetly rifled through her satchel for an envelope—and surely enough, it was addressed from _The Hon. Miss Ada Cackle_. The woman she was sitting opposite—practically on top of, for all the rules of social conduct she was breaking right now—whose luggage she had touched entirely without permission—whose appearance and manner she had fawned over—was to be staying at her guest house.

“Tea for two, and perhaps some scones or sandwiches.”

Hecate’s eyes widened. Tea for two? This was a step too far. She knew she ought she to put a stop to whatever was happening here, but would have to do so once they were alone.

“Of course, Miss Cackle. I’ll see what I can do.” He nodded his respect, and left, closing the door behind himself.

Hecate gathered her book, notebook, and pen together, and steeled herself for the awkwardness of what she was about to say. “I think perhaps I had better leave you in peace before the tea arrives.”

Miss Cackle looked surprised, but kept her tone calm. “If that is what you wish, my dear, but might I ask why?”

Hecate felt her body tense as she responded stiffly, “You see—my apologies for any discomfort this might cause you, Miss Cackle, but discovering your name alerted me to the fact that I believe you are to stay at my guest house. For the sake of propriety—”

“Oh, nonsense!” Miss Cackle waved the comment away. “On the contrary, I am looking forward to the prospect of taking tea with the woman I am to share the next few weeks with. Etiquette—all that was invented by men who didn’t like the way people do things of their own natural accord, and wanted to exert control over them. I can think of none more interesting or delightful company than yourself. But I believe you have the advantage of me.”

Hecate swallowed. Pride forbade her to decline an offer from her superior, but pride also made her reluctant to degrade herself by engaging in the folly that they were to _share_ the next few weeks together. Perhaps Miss Cackle was under some misapprehension that Hecate was an equal, and not the housekeeper who would be waiting on her and bringing her meals. She was but an inherited property and some scrounged savings away from being just the same as Mildred—the poor only child of a single mother from the village. “I am Hecate Hardbroom,” she said, her voice slightly more mechanical than it had been.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hardbroom. Ada Cackle.” The smile Miss Cackle gave her made her slightly less ill at ease. “I do hope that I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all,” Hecate said hollowly.

* * *

They passed the time with polite conversation—how Hecate had entered the guest house business, how she managed it alongside her studies, what the area was like, and how many guests she might have of a season. Although Hecate did not dare to ask too directly about Miss Cackle’s personal life, Miss Cackle offered her own remarks—that her mother was _The Right Honourable The Baroness C—_ , and that she was the reluctant heir of such a Barony, and that she often liked to escape to obscure parts of the country on account of what she guardedly called “home discomforts”. Hecate tried not to show her astonishment at her decision not to bring her maid, and about her excitement of travelling alone without the excess of luggage that usually followed her on trips around the country, but warmed to her spirit of independence and her efforts to overcome whatever her “home discomforts” might be in the most positive way available to her.

As the minutes went by, Hecate found herself relaxing more into the conversation, and expanded her brief answers ever so slightly. There was something about Miss Cackle—that she had had noted when they had first met, before she knew about the awkwardness of their relationship—towards which she instinctively felt drawn. Gradually, it did not seem quite as horrifying to be socialising with one of her guests, though it still worried her what might happen when they arrived at the cottage. Miss Cackle seemed like a good sort of person, which always made her job easier than having to wait upon someone she could not respect.

The conductor reappeared, wheeling in a table bedecked with far finer fare than Hecate could ever have imagined could be made on a moving train. Upon the table was a large teapot, two cups and saucers, and side plates—the service was certainly one reserved for first class passengers with its elegant floral pattern—tea sandwiches, and pots of jam and cream for the golden scones.

Both Miss Cackle and Hecate were obliged to remove their gloves for eating, and as Hecate unbuttoned hers and placed them in her lap, she stole a glance at Miss Cackle’s hands. They had the beautiful traces of age on them, and looked so soft that Hecate had the strange impulse that she wanted to feel them upon her own skin—this, of course, she fought down. 

Miss Cackle insisted upon pouring the tea—which Hecate allowed her to do, as she could not think of any polite way of refusing her—and cast her gaze up from those hands to her face, serene and lovely. Their eyes lingered together for a moment before Miss Cackle broke the contact first, and selected a few sandwiches for her plate. Hecate gave an almost imperceptible shudder as the aftereffect of looking into those brilliant blue eyes finally caught up with her. 

She was in equal parts perturbed and delighted by an afternoon tea that she had not had to prepare herself. She did not often have the opportunity to dine out—and dining in a train compartment with her employer, effectively, was indeed a unique situation. Miss Cackle did not seem to pay much heed to how either of them ought to behave. She enquired whether Hecate’s feline companion might like to join them at tea, and Hecate obliged by unlatching the door and letting her out. She nosed the edge of the basket, before imprinting her paw upon the padding of the purple seat. She had not had free run of a train compartment before, though she had frequently been in one—and she was at first a little cautious. Miss Cackle coaxed her over with a bit of cheese from one of the sandwiches.

“Such a beautiful long black coat,” Miss Cackle crooned as Morgana permitted her to stroke her. “I have a cat of my own—Pendle. I’m sure he’s getting up to all sorts of trouble at home. I’ve tried taking him with me on trips, but he gets so travel-sick, the poor dear.” From the way that Miss Cackle fussed Morgana on the head and behind the ears—and the fact that she was letting her—Hecate could tell that Miss Cackle dearly missed her cat, and would value Morgana’s presence.

The patchwork of fields outside the window soon turned into a distant coastline, and soon the sparkling sea snaked slowly alongside them—and then wended away again as they navigated around a valley to circle a craggy mountain. Although several hours had passed since they had first embarked upon the journey, they had seemed to fly by much faster for Hecate than usual—Miss Cackle’s stories had entertained her thoroughly, and despite her usually stoic nature, she had let a rare smile cross her lips on more than one occasion. Despite her misgivings about the social boundaries they were breaking, it was unquestionably an afternoon spent in diversion.

Morgana put her paws up against the window and looked out, wide-eyed, at horizon. They were getting closer.

* * *

On arriving at their station, the conductor appeared to help with Miss Cackle’s luggage. The train was now much emptier—they had not had much of an idea about how busy the train was, since they had been in the reserved train compartment and none had bothered them. He also took down Hecate’s suitcase—Miss Cackle would only let her carry Morgana’s basket, which Hecate would have entrusted to no other person—and bore both onto the station platform, in addition to Miss Cackle’s hat box, struggling under the weight and ungainliness of them and refusing to let either of the ladies provide assistance. Miss Cackle directed him to follow them to the nearest carriage that would take them on to the cottage.

The village was small, being on a secluded coast, and was all but built around the station. The cottage was a distance further out—in the next valley over. Since they had no horses or carriages of their own, whenever they needed to travel out, Hecate needed to send Mildred to the nearest farm, owned by a kind man named Frank Blossom, to send a brougham over. Cars were virtually unheard of in this region—it was about as far as one could get from a city, and no one in the village was wealthy enough to have a car of their own.

It so happened that the very same Mr Blossom was presently waiting by the station with his brougham—but it was no coincidence, for Hecate had asked him if he could wait there for a lady of the name of Miss Cackle. He helped Miss Cackle into the back of the brougham—answering her questions about his horses as he did so. Hecate had never thought to ask the horses’ names, but this pair were Alwyn and Rhys. They were enormous and beautifully serene Shire horses, with large feathered legs. The tips of their noses cleared Miss Cackle’s head by several hands. Mr Blossom nodded to Hecate, and remarked that it was a pleasure to welcome her back again for the summer. He knew better than to help her into the brougham, and wisely let her climb in herself next to Miss Cackle while he took the bags from the conductor.

As she sat somewhat awkwardly next to Miss Cackle, with Morgana’s basket between them, Hecate wondered what might have happened if she had simply found somewhere else to sit in the train—or if the dawdling gentleman had not delayed her to an extent that she had had to search through the train carriages for a quiet space. She might not have even met Miss Cackle—or discovered her on arrival as the only other person to alight from the train at that station. Yet—right now, Hecate was sharing a brougham with the woman, while she poked her finger through the door of Morgana’s basket to tickle her nose. It was surreal to Hecate, who sat upright, her hands in her lap, fingers curling in apprehension.

The evening had begun to settle, and it was even cooler than it had been when Hecate had first set out, owing to it being more exposed here on the coast. The gentle clop of the horses’ hooves on the road told her that she would not have to endure this strangeness for long—soon they would be in the cottage, where she was determined to make the boundaries clearer. The liminal space of travel—not quite one place or another—would fade, and Miss Cackle would surely remember herself. Hecate’s untoward feelings would be put at rest soon enough.

The brougham turned up the slight incline to where the cottage stood amongst a surrounding of trees, left grown a little wild. Below a decoratively shaped gable, thick ivy crept up over the brick façade. Miss Cackle peered out and up at it as they finally came to a halt outside the gate.

Hecate stepped down from the brougham first with Morgana, and offered her hand to Miss Cackle to help her down while Mr Blossom dealt with their luggage. Miss Cackle was distracted once more by the Shire horses who towered over her, nodding their peaceful heads down to her so she could pat their noses. They were bred more for agricultural work than for pulling carriages, but were gentle as Miss Cackle muttered softly to them.

“You’re welcome to come and see them again if you like, Miss Cackle,” Mr Blossom told her in his personable way as Miss Cackle paid him, despite Hecate’s protestations. “Send word with Mildred and me or my son Charlie can come to fetch you. We can give you a tour of the farm.”

Hecate inwardly balked at the idea, but Miss Cackle lit up like a flower opening in the sun. “That would be delightful—wouldn’t it, Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate was not entirely certain whether agreeing would bind her into a queer day trip with her guest. She was envious of Mr Blossom’s absolute freedom and ease with words when speaking with Miss Cackle in a way, and gave a non-committal sort of grunt.

“Horses are such marvellous creatures,” Miss Cackle said, giving Hecate a thoughtful once-over.

Aware that she ought to respond in kind, Hecate inclined her head jerkily. “Indeed.”

Morgana was less enthusiastic about the horses and was glad to see them off. Mr Blossom tipped his hat to the ladies, before mounting the front seat of the brougham and setting off back down the lane on to his farm. 

Hecate guided Miss Cackle under the wooden gate and through a rose garden to a path that led up to the cottage. A stone balustrade lined the steps to the front entrance. It was a charming example of Jacobean architecture, originally commissioned by an Englishman keen to have a country home in this secluded part of Wales. It had elements of grandeur after the fashion of a prodigy house, but on a miniature scale. It had been passed from the original family after a retrenchment, and since handed between various owners who neglected it, until it fell into such a state of disrepair that a great-great-grandfather of Hecate’s had been able to purchase it for a pittance, and painstakingly restored it over his lifetime until his death, when his only daughter Hortensia, who was purportedly skilled as a carpenter for her sex, took over his work and finished the project. 

Hecate opened the door, and set the luggage down in the hall. After a brief tour of the rooms of the house, she then led Miss Cackle up the grand staircase that dominated the hallway, to the room in which she would be staying—which had seen quite a bit of improvement over the past few years. Since it had been filled and emptied of furniture various times over the years, Hecate had had to supplement what remained with a few items on auction, investing some of her savings into making the guest rooms appeal to the finer tastes of the day. Miss Cackle was only too delighted with the room—Hecate had never heard such an effusion over how wonderfully it was put together, blessing the “charming view” over the rose garden and the vista down to the shore. Hecate’s cheeks tinged with a little colour—it must have been the heavy suitcase that she had borne up the stairs, and certainly no other kind of emotion.

“Will this suit?”

Miss Cackle beamed up at her. “Most certainly.”

Allowing Miss Cackle her privacy to freshen herself after her lengthy journey, Hecate proceeded down to the kitchens to see to Mildred. Mildred had already been at the cottage for a while, making sure all the linen was fresh and pressed, and stocking the pantry according to the lists Hecate had sent on ahead. She was presently seeing to a pair of loaves that had just come out of the range. Her hair was at least plaited and simply put up under a cap, but the apron over her skirt and bodice was quite wrinkled.

“I am pleased to see you have been getting on well, Mildred,” Hecate said, casting a critically appreciative eye over her work.

Mildred dusted off her hands. “Miss Hardbroom—I hope your journey was all right.”

“There were no delays,” Hecate responded simply. “Our guest, Miss Cackle, arrived with me. I will look in on her in a short while after she has settled.”

Mildred was a young girl of sixteen and had been working for Hecate for the past few years, when she had answered Hecate’s advertisement for a maid in the local paper. During Hecate’s first summer of running the cottage for guests—sometimes several at a time—she had discovered that it could not be easily accomplished by one person, and had decided that a little help would ease the burden. In all honesty, even with one maid, she was stretched a little thin at times. Yet Mildred was eager to please, and a hard worker—and was rather keen on making herself as useful as possible to ensure future employment, since she knew that she could always eat very well indeed from the leftovers of the fashionable.

Occasionally, Hecate would have enquiries from a potential party of several guests who all expected a dinner of at least ten courses—were she to accept such a charge, she would be run off her feet spending her entire day in the kitchen. Generally speaking, those who stayed at her guest house were aware that they were not coming here to dine as they would in the city or a great house; she made sure to communicate that this was a house of some modesty and restraint, against the fashion of the day for abundance, and that those used to certain comforts might not do well here. This restraint did certainly stretch to several courses per meal, but was by comparison humble indeed compared to the dinner parties during the Season she had heard that each cost their hosts a fortune of £24 to put on.

It had, therefore, surprised her immensely to hear from Miss Cackle initially, since it was not every day that a person of the aristocracy should choose to retreat alone to somewhere quite so far from where the social scene was centred in London, and most likely below what she was used to—and during the height of the Season, too. Yet Miss Cackle’s letter quite explicitly stated, in her elaborately looping hand, that she was looking forward to a quiet and simple break for her health.

There had seemed to be some miscommunication, perhaps, between Miss Cackle’s letter and that which accompanied it—Miss Cackle’s lady’s maid had very efficiently sent her food preferences ahead with Miss Cackle’s letter of confirmation about her stay. To Hecate’s complete lack of surprise, it had included a vast selection of the finest foods of which Hecate could barely conceive, let alone know how to prepare. On the whole, Hecate was used to doing her best to accommodate the preferences of her guests, but it was as though her lady’s maid anticipated that Miss Hardbroom was to be preparing royal dinner parties every evening. For one guest, it was an awful lot of work, and would produce an excess of leftovers that not even both Hecate and Mildred could conquer. Miss Cackle had given no indication that she expected food of such grandeur, however, so Hecate had taken the list in an advisory capacity and ordered a few select ingredients that she would need, in addition to some ginger liqueur, after the custom of King Edward, and Madeira. She already had enough Riesling and a full case of 1869 Romanée-Conti.

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that she asked, “What will you be wanting for dinner, Miss Cackle?”

Hecate had requested entry to Miss Cackle’s room to assist her in the unpacking of her belongings, and was at present hanging some of her quite lavish outfits. She had had aristocratic guests before, of course, but this Miss Cackle seemed very fond of her clothes—and wondered if it could have possibly escaped Miss Cackle’s that even her own best clothes were at least five years out of season, and did not have the present fashionable silhouette.

“Perhaps just something light. Fruit and cheese. I don’t want to put you to any trouble when you’ve only just arrived.”

“As you wish, Miss Cackle,” Hecate said, feeling herself settle back into her housekeeper mode. After all the afternoon’s excitement, she started to sober up, realising she had to cope with several weeks of professionalism. She now wished she had not met Miss Cackle on the train—for now their roles were muddled, and maintaining a respectful relationship that honoured Miss Cackle’s class was going to be a challenge. She could not risk acting in a way that was untoward, _handsomely tall_ or not.

Hecate continued to fold and sort Miss Cackle’s clothing and undergarments. She must not have touched so much lace and silk in her life. With such a toilette, she pondered why on earth Miss Cackle had not brought her own lady’s maid, who would know far better how to efficiently store and order everything.

“When you feel ready, you are welcome to wait in the library until I call you for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Miss Cackle said kindly.

It was unnecessary for Miss Cackle to thank her so—for she would be wasting half her breath every day on such superfluous courtesies—but Hecate nodded her appreciation before leaving swiftly.

* * *

Hecate reported back to the kitchen to brief Mildred on the order of the day, as well as some gentle reminders about matters such as when to heat the range in the morning and when Miss Cackle preferred to breakfast.

“Ensure your apron is ironed more carefully,” Hecate chided her gently. “Otherwise—you have managed well in my absence.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred bobbed her head.

“I will bring Miss Cackle a light dinner, since she has already eaten. You may make any preparations you can for tomorrow’s food.”

While Mildred busied herself with making the curry sauce for tomorrow’s curried eggs, Hecate set about preparing a platter of cheeses—Cheddar, Lancashire, Stilton, and Brie—arranging them neatly, nestled between bunches of grapes and apple slices. Mildred, unfortunately, clumsy as she was, spilt the container of imported Vencatachellum’s curry powder onto the floor—and while it might not have cost as much as imported spices used to, it was still a pretty penny and not something Hecate wished to replace soon. There was still enough leftover for the time being, and the sauce itself would last for a few days’ meals. Hecate managed to scoop up Morgana and put her outside the back door in time so that Mildred could sweep it up and scrub away the residue thoroughly. The last thing any of them wanted was little curried pawprints on the rugs upstairs.

Hecate called Miss Cackle in from the library, who was exploring the volumes—unwitting of the minor crisis of downstairs—to the dining room, before bringing the platter up from the kitchen, and placed it before her lone guest, before pouring the golden Madeira into the sparklingly clean glass.

“Won’t you join me?” Miss Cackle asked as Hecate turned to leave.

Hecate stopped in her tracks. She had never before been asked by a guest to _join them_ —nor, in fact, had she been spoken to beyond the necessary questions— but realised it would be the height of impertinence to refuse this request.

“As you please, Miss Cackle,” she said quietly, and stood beside her, wondering if Miss Cackle expected her to make polite conversation or if she should wait until prompted.

“Sit with me, and tell me all about yourself,” Miss Cackle, said, indicating a chair next to her.

Hecate very stiffly drew out the chair and sat, feeling most unsettled in the unset place by her guest. She noticed at once that she was now close enough to Miss Cackle that she could smell her perfume—which she must have refreshed while Hecate had left her to her own devices. The spice and musk notes mingled in the air—the smell of opulent nights at dinner parties of which Hecate had only dreamt.

“You must eat as well, my dear. I couldn’t possibly enjoy myself if you are sitting by hungry while I indulge on all this lovely food—” and with that, Miss Cackle took up the bell from the table and rang it delicately before Hecate could stop her.

Hecate felt her blood drain from her face. Mildred must be elbow-deep in curry now, as she was when Hecate had left her—and she had never had to answer the bell of a guest before. She dreaded to think how Mildred might conduct herself, and hoped Miss Cackle would show some degree of understanding for her inexperience and appearance.

Mildred, mercifully, was mostly curry-free, but her forehead had a slight shine to it as if she’d dashed upstairs at full pelt, and there was a stain on her apron. Mildred made a strange motion towards Miss Cackle that was something between a curtsey and falling over. Hecate pursed her lips—for not only was Mildred not fit to be seen upstairs, but she herself was also wholly disgraced to be seen by her own maid sitting to dine with a guest—the daughter of a Baroness, no less. She hopped up from the table at once, and arranged her hands in a similar pose of deference as Mildred was attempting to adopt—though a great deal less wide-eyed and worried-looking. The poor girl—she must assume that something terribly serious had come up and that she was about to be dismissed over some indiscretion.

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, my dear—” Miss Cackle said to the bewildered Mildred, who gave Hecate a panicked look. “I’m ever so sorry to disturb you when you’re clearly in the middle of something quite exciting, but would you bring up a place setting for Miss Hardbroom? I’ve twisted her arm into dining with me.”

“That is quite all right, Mildred,” Hecate interjected as Mildred opened her mouth in shock. “I shall see to it myself.” It was not as though Hecate did not trust Mildred with the silverware, but she had not been remotely instructed how to set a place or the proper way to address someone of Miss Cackle’s social standing. She was invaluable when it came to seeing to the hearths and cooking and cleaning, but Hecate had not yet begun training her in more upstairs matters where she would be seen by guests.

“You know best,” Miss Cackle replied with a smile, and Hecate swept herself and Mildred out of the room without a second to spare.

Hecate indicated with her eyes to Mildred that she should not speak until they were far enough away from the dining room as to not be overheard, and that questions would wait until they were downstairs. She knew she would have to speak to Mildred about the proper way to appear before a guest at some point, but had not anticipated that it would be quite so early. If Miss Cackle was to make a habit of ‘twisting her arm’ in this particular manner, Mildred would have to be a quick learner. 

Hecate was stony silent until she closed the door to the kitchen, and fixed Mildred with a look of alarm.

“It seems our guest is something of an eccentric,” she said uneasily, feeling aghast at her own admission. “Perhaps I should have warned you before, as I had an inkling of this when I met her on the train.”

“You met her _on the train_?” Mildred repeated, shocked. 

“It was a mistake. We were both seated in the same compartment. I offered to move but she would not hear of it. Regardless, I expect she shall continue to behave in this manner. For the sake of making her comfortable with this arrangement, I suggest we— play along, as it were. She is clearly used to a different sort of life to us, and is well within her rights to make strange demands, naturally. But you must not let this influence how you treat other guests. It is fortunate that she is the only guest staying for this period, since I cannot imagine how it would offend were I to be seen dining with aristocracy as though we were equals.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred said, bobbing her head.

“Should she ring for you again, I suggest you try to make yourself as presentable as possible. Use sleeve covers whenever possible. Should she ask you to help with her toilette, you must call for me instead. Heaven forbid—should she _ask you to dine_ , conduct yourself as well as you can and do not speak. I will brief you on the finer details of the etiquette as much as possible later, but for now—try your best. I shan’t be counting any blunders on your part against you while she is here, since this is an exceptional case. I hope I can count on you.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

“I believe she is the sort to allow any such mistakes to pass, but the correct procedure must be followed as closely as possible.”

Hecate was painfully aware that she was keeping Miss Cackle waiting, so she gathered together a dinner setting for herself on a tray. She could not bring herself to dine with the good china—even though she had inherited it, it felt like a transgression to use something she reserved for guests—it was her livelihood that she could barely afford to replace if it became too worn from regular use. She guiltily made her way back up to the dining room, bracing herself before entering so that she could bear to look upon that warming smile without burning up inside.

* * *

It was early morning, and Hecate awoke with a start after quite a bizarre dream. The night before had taken an even more decided turn for the queer when Miss Cackle had poured Hecate some of her own Madeira and encouraged her to indulge with her. Hecate only kept Madeira for her guests, and she was not used to the strength of it by any means. Since Hecate was too brief on the topic of her own life, Miss Cackle told yet more stories about her friends that Hecate at first stiffly nodded along to—but soon, becoming slightly more relaxed with wine and the alluring company of this fascinating woman—she had allowed smiles and lingered ever longer in the gaze of those eyes, hooded with unspoken interest as she spoke of river parties and presentations at court in words that all sounded almost foreign to Hecate’s giddy mind. She studied the shape of her guest’s face in the candlelight and could not help but admit that what she saw there was beautiful, though she could not speak it.

They had retired to the drawing room, full of wine and cheese—and Hecate had been persuaded into a game of backgammon. They whiled away a good part of the evening’s hours into the night, before Hecate realised that it was far too late—and the horrible realisation that she was sitting on the guest furniture and drinking the guest wine and mixing far above her station dawned on her. It was Miss Cackle, blessedly, who had suggested that they sleep, and Hecate had tidied away the backgammon and taken the empty glasses and the bottle of Madeira that she had hoped would last the week down to the dark kitchen, head slightly spinning, even though they had taken a lot less of the wine than she had thought. It had been a small mercy that Mildred had gone to bed already.

Hecate had been so mortified that she had forgotten to check in on Miss Cackle to make sure she had everything she required for the night, and to offer her assistance in preparing for bed. She would offer her most humble apologies this morning, when she would perform the duties that her lady’s maid would usually.

Hecate began her day as usual with her morning routine, feeling still half in a dream-state as she drew the brush through her waist-length hair. Miss Cackle was quite the character, and no doubt about it.

Hecate set about her duties before Miss Cackle arose. She estimated she ought to have a good few hours before she would want to be awoken. The range was hot, as she expected it, when she descended to the kitchens, and Mildred was already seeing to the porridge. She took in a delivery of fresh eggs, milk, and cream from Charlie Blossom, the teenage son of Mr Blossom, who stopped by with his horse and cart. She updated the inventory of the pantry. If she could set everything in order, she knew that she could control it—and her own emotions.

By now, she had put it off long enough—Hecate ascended the stairs to Miss Cackle’s bed chamber, and knocked, waiting with her heart in her throat until she was called in, a pot of tea steaming on a tray in her tight-knuckled hands. The teacup rattled slightly in its saucer from the built-up anxiety she was carrying in her shoulders.

“Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Cackle exclaimed in her usual expression of delight. She had already dressed herself, to Hecate’s great surprise, since Hecate had not even brought her tea in, or laid out her toilette—but there she was, sitting at her dressing table, her glasses set before her, and in the process of unplaiting her hair from the two loose plaits she had put her hair into for airing her scalp overnight.

“Good morning, Miss Cackle. May I be of assistance?”

Miss Cackle’s cheeks glowed with pleasure under her piercing blue eyes. Without her glasses, they were even more striking. Hecate felt quite exposed under their observation, and set the tea service down. “If you like. That is, if you don’t mind?”

The pair of silver brushes Hecate had set out from Miss Cackle’s possessions yesterday lay before her on the dressing table, and Miss Cackle leaned back in the chair to allow Hecate access.

“Of course.” Hecate took over from Miss Cackle, gently freeing her hair from the plaits with her fingers before taking up the brushes, heart thudding in anticipation as she confirmed what Miss Cackle would prefer that day. Her hair fell to just above her waist, and was soft as silk. In passing it through her hands, she realised that being of the aristocracy, and of some wealth, she must have access to the finest hair oils and pomades and treatments to make it so soft. The hair she was combing back from her face must have been a vibrant red colour at one point, but had now mellowed to a honeyed strawberry blonde, and from certain angles sparkled as if touched by frost. “I must apologise for my conduct last night, Miss Cackle. I admit I became—carried away, with the excitement of being asked to dine with one of my guests. It shan’t happen again.”

“Oh, but I do hope it does.”

Hecate was struck silent. 

“You come across as someone who values the observation of rules very well, Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Cackle said slowly, as if choosing her words carefully. “Yet I cannot help but admit that I find you all too fascinating to want you to withdraw from me on account of social class.”

Hecate’s eyes fell upon the dressing table as Miss Cackle spoke, to a slender cut glass perfume bottle, with an ornate silver stopper. She was entranced—the memory of sitting by her in the dining room, breathing in the complex blend of spices and musk, flooded back to her—yet her hands hesitated in Miss Cackle’s hair. Miss Cackle had certainly only meant that in a polite way.

“I understand that it must be a shock to come here on your own, far from your own society, Miss Cackle. It is only natural to want to find companionship in those around you, and it speaks well of your good nature that you should not exclude us from conversation because we are your inferiors, even though society would not look well upon you for it.” It was as close as Hecate could come to saying that Miss Cackle would do better to leave her and Mildred to themselves.

“You are a remarkably clever woman, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Thank you, Miss Cackle,” Hecate replied automatically, though she did not know where the comment had come from.

Hecate continued to dress Miss Cackle’s hair in silence, drawing sections up and over a rat to create a pompadour roll. Miss Cackle sat patient and still for her, and Hecate tried to make the process as pleasant as possible while not being _overly_ pleasant, for either of them. She turned her attention to the back, and began winding sections around her forefinger and middle finger and rolling them towards her head to create puffs, and pinned them in place, determinedly trying not to admire Miss Cackle in the process—distracting though she was in this position.

“Have you given any thought as to what you might like to do during your stay here?” 

It had been more a question of practicality than a personal enquiry, but Hecate thought Miss Cackle might take it as the latter—as she did. “I should very much like to visit Mr Blossom’s farm, but not today. I am quiet tired after last night.” Her eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “I might spend the morning in your wonderful library, and then perhaps later you could accompany me for a walk to the beach? I think the sea air will be quite restorative.”

“Very well, Miss Cackle,” Hecate responded, supposing that accompanying Miss Cackle on an excursion was well within acceptable behaviours. Her lady’s maid would certainly do so in the absence of a more suitable chaperon, and therefore she could find no fault in it. She put the finishing touches to Miss Cackle’s hair. “I will call you for breakfast shortly.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom.”

Had Hecate looked back to see the way Miss Cackle’s eyes regarded her, she might have noticed a look of longing—yet she did not, and she was none the wiser.

* * *

After Miss Cackle enjoyed her luncheon, at which Hecate served sorrel soup, curried egg, oyster vol-au-vents, pork chops, and braised celery—which Hecate managed to avoid having to spend with her, partly on the pretence of having some duties to attend to, and partly because Hecate and Mildred were genuinely accustomed to have their lunch earlier, as was the custom for servants—Hecate began the process of getting them both ready for their outing. She hastily put on one of her best suits, which was not nearly as embellished as Miss Cackle’s, so that she would look acceptable next to her. 

As Hecate stalked back through the kitchen to head up to Miss Cackle, Mildred called over from the sink, where she was washing up the luncheon dishes, “Room for one more for the beach?”

“I hope that is in jest, Mildred Hubble.” Hecate glowered across the room.

“Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate turned once more to leave.

“Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate sighed and turned back to her. “What is it, Mildred?”

“I thought it was strange—did you notice how Miss Cackle didn’t touch any of the meat—the meat I spent an age tracking down from that list of hers?”

“The whims of the upper classes are not ours to question,” Hecate responded, slightly snappish in her tone. “Save it for tomorrow. We can use it in another dish. I have it on good authority that it is a favourite of hers.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

After Hecate helped Miss Cackle change her bodice and skirt for something appropriate for walking—a purple affair with not too many flounces on the skirt—they set out into the early afternoon sun, through the rose garden and across the lane to a path beside a field. 

The beach was but a half-mile’s walk from the cottage, and the path was quite flat and even, with the exception of a few stiles to climb over. Miss Cackle held a fashionable parasol with a dainty scalloped lace edge over her shoulder to protect her complexion from the sun—and it struck Hecate again just how much a lady of society Miss Cackle was. She could easily imagine her eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking champagne in the morning—and for a glimmer of a second, wished that she had also be born to that life, so that she might one day get to stand alongside Miss Cackle, enjoying the same delights as she, and being able to fully bask in her presence—rather than just being her companion out of a lack of any other available person. That last thought sobered her, and reminded her of the delineation of her position from that of Miss Cackle.

“Has all been well for you so far, Miss Cackle?”

“Everything has been divine, thank you.” Miss Cackle paused for a moment, before continuing, “I ought to perhaps inform you, however, that I am not in the habit of eating meat presently.”

“Indeed?” Hecate said, startled. “Everything I have served to you came as recommended from your maid, Miss Gullet. If there was some miscommunication—”

“Ahh,” Miss Cackle sighed in realisation. “Miss Gullet sent you a list, didn’t she? That list would probably constitute foods Miss Gullet thinks I _ought_ to like. She has never been a proponent of my choices.”

“I must humbly apologise, Miss Cackle—”

“It is no fault of yours. Please apologise to your girl for me. I really should have thought to check what she enclosed before she sent it off.”

Hecate was mortified that she had put food before Miss Cackle that was offensive to her taste. She thought on what could be done about the abundance of meat in the pantry—some of it could be perhaps kept for the next lot of guests, or donated. She was sure Ms Hubble would be more than grateful if Mildred brought back a parcel of food on an afternoon off. Morgana, she was certain, would not complain if she had a little of the leftovers. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to go over the list with me when we return so that we can cater more closely to your needs.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you were caught in the middle of this strange feud between myself and my maid.” 

Hecate had indeed wondered if there might have been some disagreement with her lady’s maid, which would explain her absence from this excursion—but knew it was not her place to probe further.

The jewel of the sea came into view as they approached the edge of the field. Another stile was ahead, and Hecate found herself naturally offering a hand to Miss Cackle to help her down. As Miss Cackle’s gloved hand closed over hers, she felt her heart stir within her—but then a sudden panic gripped it as Miss Cackle stumbled slightly on her descent—Hecate’s arms stopped her falling further, and Hecate apologised, blushing violently.

“You are quite the gallant, Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Cackle beamed, once Hecate had verified that the ankle had not been turned.

“I would be a terrible host if I led you to injury on your first outing.”

The grassy bank beyond the field eventually gave way to loose sand, and they proceeded onto the beach. Miss Cackle was obliged to take her arm, for the sand made her footing quite unstable. Hecate tensed to feel Miss Cackle tucked into her, and felt a blush rise to the tips of her ears. 

Hecate filled her lungs with the gentle sound of the waves, and let go of the anxiousness she had felt when she thought Miss Cackle was going to fall on the stile. It had been her first chance to relax in a while—for during her university terms, she spent much of her time in dusty libraries researching, and found that open spaces such as this were harder to come by when one’s day revolved around being indoors.

“Isn’t it pleasant?” Miss Cackle said, inhaling some of the fresh sea air.

“It is indeed.” She wished she could be more entertaining with her comments. Hesitating for a moment, she volunteered, “I always found the sea rather calming when I would come here as a child.”

“Did you ever live in the house?”

“For short breaks, sometimes,” Hecate replied wistfully. “While my father was alive, we would occasionally spend the Summer here. After he passed on, my mother did not wish to return. The cottage fell into my possession upon her death.”

“Have you no siblings?” Miss Cackle asked, sounding surprised.

“I have not.”

Miss Cackle looked out to sea. “I have an identical twin sister. She—” For the first time, Hecate felt a sense of remorse from Miss Cackle. Her lower lip twitched. “She was not so lucky as I when it came to Mother. Mother always expected much more from her than I, and I— naturally took to instruction more easily than she. Agatha was always the more intractable of the two of us. She always had some hare-brained scheme to cause havoc when she grew bored of our governesses. I believe it was because of that quality that Mother let us believe that I would be the inheritor of the estate—that I was the elder twin—but it transpired that she had been lying to us for quite some time. And yet, somehow, Mother wrangled it so that I would still be the legal heir.”

Hecate listened attentively, and understood that this tension between her sister and her mother was what Miss Cackle had meant by ‘home discomforts’. It was discomforting indeed, and enough to make anyone wish to flee from such a situation. Hecate wondered how different her own life would have been if she would have grown up with siblings—but brushed off the thought as unimportant to the immediate situation. 

“My apologies—that was quite an outburst. I think I’ve frightened you and spoilt our outing,” Miss Cackle smiled sadly.

“Not at all, Miss Cackle, I assure you,” Hecate countered. “I was merely allowing you more time to say all that you needed to.”

Miss Cackle turned and took Hecate’s gloved hands in her own. “You are— quite remarkable.” 

Hecate looked up into Miss Cackle’s eyes to see they were shining with tears behind her spectacles. “I believe it is you who are remarkable—for holding onto your gentleness of spirit with so much strife around you.”

“In strife, we must strive onwards,” Miss Cackle said, nodding resolutely.

Hecate felt a surge of warmth towards Miss Cackle. Even though they were both quite different women, from wildly differing backgrounds—she had a strong kinship with her. While Hecate was more reserved with her feelings, and was urged by her social position to do so, she valued the kind way Miss Cackle seemed to look upon the world.

“That is a wonderful philosophy,” Hecate whispered. She looked down at their hands, which were still joined together, and dared to dream.

“I must confess that I have never had a companion I felt quite as close to as I to you,” Miss Cackle said, the admission causing her colour to rise. “And before you protest, you have been a true companion to me—providing me with more joy than I could have thought possible. I wondered— I wondered if you felt the same way.”

Hecate felt goosebumps prick down her arms, despite the heat of the sun over them. Miss Cackle’s gaze upon her was intense—and Hecate was not quite sure what was the best answer, since even though she dared to dream—she did not expect that that was what Miss Cackle meant at all. How could she mean such a thing?

“Perhaps I have been too presumptuous,” Miss Cackle interrupted her thoughts. 

Hecate knew she must respond—she did not wish to _lie_ to Miss Cackle, but she needed to assuage her worries that Hecate had found her confession offensive in any way. “You have been quite the influence on me. In another life, I hope we are great friends.”

“I expect we are,” Miss Cackle murmured.

They walked along the strand, more subdued than before, circumventing the clumps of seaweed spread out in lines where the tide had washed it ashore on the pebble-washed beach. As Hecate looked out over the sea, she mused over the other version of the two of them, perhaps taking this same route, linking arms for a very different reason. 

They went as far as the bridge over the river mouth before Miss Cackle declared that she thought that her ankle might well have suffered a slight twist. Hecate took her back a more direct and far less scenic route, concern mounting as she felt Miss Cackle leaning on her more and more as they went. By the time they reached the steps up to the house, she had quite a pronounced limp.

“Shall I send for the doctor?” Hecate said, frowning as she tried to make Miss Cackle comfortable in the library. Her heart twisted to see her so with such a pallor.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Miss Cackle said as she eased herself onto the chaise-longue. Hecate gently unbuttoned her boot, and removed both boot and stocking. She placed her foot onto a pillow to raise it, and applied a hot fomentation. “Ah, that’s lovely.” 

Hecate left Miss Cackle with a good novel, and went down to the kitchen to prepare her some strong, fortifying tea. She managed to reach the kitchen in time to stop Mildred undoing the string on a chicken that they had planned for the roast course, and instead directed her to wait until she had had the chance to speak to Miss Cackle about her food preferences. Miss Cackle was happy enough to look over the list with Hecate, who perched awkwardly on a wooden chair by her side with Miss Gullet’s letter while she sipped on her tea.

Hecate reported back to Mildred, and instructed her that they would be preparing potato croquettes, omelette soufflée with parmesan, macaroni au gratin, and French beans instead. It was not quite the feast she had hoped to impress Miss Cackle with, but it would do in a trick before she could send Mildred to the market.

* * *

By the evening, Miss Cackle’s ankle was doing much better, and she managed to make her own way unassisted to the dining room. While she had been too tired to change her toilette, she had put on a dazzling blue sapphire necklace, and matching earrings. To avoid as strange a scene as the previous night, Hecate had set a place for herself alongside Miss Cackle. Serving herself and Miss Cackle _à la russe_ would be farcical, so _à la française_ it would have to be—she laid the table with all the dishes before they began, so they could help themselves as they wanted it. The candlelight flickered over the merry assemblage of dishes, and it looked quite homely. Hecate decided that since they were following a more informal dinner, they would have but one wine—the Riesling would pair nicely. 

“This is glorious,” Miss Cackle proclaimed, as she asked Hecate for one last spoon of the macaroni au gratin, which was presented in a pretty coquille dish.

“Nothing but the best for our favourite guest,” Hecate returned, a smile curving her lips. It was a relief to see Miss Cackle in such good spirits and tucking into the food. She had looked quite pale earlier in the library, and had refused any afternoon tea refreshments.

“I’m also your _only_ guest,” Miss Cackle said wryly, raising an eyebrow.

“You could also see it that way, I suppose,” Hecate said airily.

Miss Cackle laughed, and put her hand over Hecate’s on the table. Hecate’s smile faded, and she fixed her eyes on Miss Cackle, seeking her intent, while feeling herself soften under the touch of her skin. She knew she could no longer hide what was written in her expression. She ever so gradually rotated her hand a fraction, testing to see if Miss Cackle would move her hand—but instead of withdrawing, Miss Cackle’s hand continued turning hers, until their palms met and pressed against each others. Their fingers laced together, tantalisingly slowly as each of them sought permission in each other’s eyes. Hecate’s heart hammered in her chest in anxiety about what was to happen next—was Miss Cackle about to decry her actions, or did she really want— this?

“I hope this is all right,” Miss Cackle broke the silence, her voice low, “but I have wanted to do that ever since I first saw you.”

Hecate’s breath shook in her lungs as she processed this information. “It is— quite all right. I have— felt that way too.”

Miss Cackle’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. I feel as though I have waited—all my life to meet you.”

Hecate raised Miss Cackle’s hand to her lips, and kissed it softly. “I hope we can be more than great friends—in this lifetime. Even if it is for these mere few weeks we have together.”

“I would like that very much,” Miss Cackle whispered in response.

“I— don’t wish to interrupt this moment, but Mildred and I prepared a rather nice dessert that I think you will like,” Hecate smiled.

“Of course— please. We can continue talking later.”

Hecate whisked away all the dishes hurriedly—and then stood outside the back door of the hot kitchen, breathing heavily—wondering what on earth she had done, holding her head in her hands. Mildred appeared behind her, perplexed.

“Are you all right, Miss Hardbroom?” Mildred sounded as though she were far away, speaking from the other side of a tunnel.

“Just a little warm, Mildred. I need— a moment alone.”

Mildred’s voice floated back into her awareness, and said that she would put the finishing touches to the plate.

Hecate could not think about that for the moment, for Miss Cackle had— Miss Cackle had wanted to hold her hand. There was no equivocation, and no margin of doubt to be found. Hecate had even said—and she had no idea what had possessed her to utter it aloud—that she hoped they could be _more than great friends_. Miss Cackle had not denied it, either. She was all awhirl with emotions she had thought lay dormant, deep within her. She could not even blame the Riesling, for she had barely touched her glass.

But the dessert—the dessert must be served. Hecate returned to the kitchen, where she saw Mildred delicately arranging a veritable cornucopia of sliced fruit around the pie.

“That’s quite enough fruit, Mildred,” Hecate said firmly, feeling more like herself.

“I wanted it to look nice for Miss Cackle,” Mildred frowned.

Hecate patted her on the shoulder affectionately, and picked up the vast platter. “It looks lovely. You have done me very proud.”

Mildred grinned, and said, “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” as Hecate wended her way back upstairs to the dining room.

* * *

Both Hecate and Miss Cackle seemed to skirt around their previous conversation after they entered the drawing room—perhaps made self-conscious by what might happen next, or too afraid to bring it up in case it had all been a shared hallucination. In the wake of dinner, there was now no longer the excuse of filling one’s mouth with custard and meringue pie to deflect saying any more on the matter. Somehow, as they drank Madeira and played Cribbage and exchanged longing looks in the candlelight, Hecate felt wonderfully happy—but also terribly afraid. Perhaps it was because she associated the drawing room with seeing guests having their own conversations, but she thought they would be overheard at any moment.

Miss Cackle must have sensed Hecate’s strange impending dread, for she said, quite early, that she would like to retire for the evening. Hecate nodded mutely, not fully aware who had won the game—or whether indeed they had finished it—and they both stole upstairs to Miss Cackle’s bedroom, hands brushing against each other’s until Miss Cackle folded her hand insistently around Hecate’s.

Hecate closed the door of Miss Cackle’s room behind them. 

“I hope you haven’t changed your mind, Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Cackle said.

“Not in the slightest,” Hecate murmured. “Let me take your hair down.”

Miss Cackle sat obediently in the chair and removed her spectacles, evidently more than welcoming to this idea.

Hecate first slid out the ornate hat pin, which was set with a blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds, and laid it rather carefully on the dressing table with the hat, knowing that it most likely was priceless in worth, or a family heirloom handed down by the Baroness—her mother.

Hecate could not resist tracing a finger down the exposed skin behind her ear, seeing pleasure shiver through her. She shifted aside one of the pinned puffs, relishing in the silk-like feel of the silvered honey-coloured hair. She slipped the first pin out, releasing a coil of hair to tumble down her back, holding a wave in it from being curled all day. With each subsequent pin removed, she could feel Miss Cackle relax more and more under her fingers, and without a word, Hecate took the final pins from Miss Cackle’s hair, smoothing her hands over and down her neck as she did so—as she had wished to only that morning. Miss Cackle, turning and stopping Hecate’s hands in her own, stood up, and pierced her with her soulful blue eyes.

Hecate could bear it no longer—she lifted Miss Cackle’s chin delicately with her hand, and in hesitant starts—brushed her lips gently against Miss Cackle’s, feeling the softness there—trembling as she did so—before sinking into a long-awaited kiss. Miss Cackle put an arm around her waist to steady her, and she deepened the kiss, recalling each time she had wanted to say something—reach out to her—admit to what she had been holding back—and pouring that into each sensation. She withdrew, her head reeling, and feeling as though she had just stepped off a cloud.

“I would stay here my whole life if it meant being kissed like that every day,” Miss Cackle breathed.

“Miss Cackle—”

“Please, let’s use Christian names,” Miss Cackle—Ada whispered.

Hecate felt weak as she uttered, “Ada—”

They kissed desperately again—Hecate’s hands stroking up from her face and twining in her hair, reaching around to the back of her head to draw her ever closer—until they parted. Hecate lost herself in Ada’s eyes, pure and honest, and gazing lovingly back at her.

“Ada—would you really—stay here with me?” Hecate asked, barely capable of more than a whisper.

“Of course, Hecate,” Ada responded, stroking her cheek softly with her fingertips.

Hecate had never known such euphoria could exist.

* * *

“Morgana?”

The morning was still quite young, and it was about the time Morgana usually started yowling for her breakfast—but she was nowhere to be seen. Mildred was already chopping vegetables for a soup, putting them into a stock pot to soften. Hecate diced some of the pork chop from yesterday’s luncheon and put it onto the plate she reserved for Morgana’s leftovers. Usually the cat would come running as soon as she heard the plate on the stone floor, but there was not a whisker nor a tail to be seen.

“Mildred, have you seen Morgana this morning?” 

Mildred scrunched up her face in thought. “No, Miss Hardbroom. Not this morning. But last night I think she went up to Miss Cackle’s room.”

“Ah—thank you. I think I shall take Miss Cackle her morning tea, and see if I can save her from Morgana.”

Her heart skipped to think of Miss Cackle—Ada—and the evening they had shared last night. She took a silver tea pot out of the cabinet and put a kettle on the range to heat, willing the water to heat faster, thinking that the boiling point of water had absolutely no business being so high as to keep her apart from the woman for whom she cared so deeply. She set out two teacups and saucers—for she thought it might not be too presumptuous to assume that Ada might want her to stay for a cup of tea.

When the tea was finally ready, Hecate tried her best to remain calm and steady as she bore it upstairs to Ada’s room. Hecate knocked tentatively on the door, counting down the moments before she could see her face.

“Come in,” came the response, and Hecate entered.

Ada, this time, was not dressed—she was sitting up in bed, where—surely enough—a dark circle of fur and ears was coiled up in her lap.

“Good morning, Ada,” Hecate said, a hopeful smile on her lips as she set the tray down on the side. “I see Morgana has chosen you as her bed.”

“She scratched at the door last night, so I let her in to save your doors,” Ada explained. “And she slept at the foot of the bed all night. Ah—two cups?”

Hecate blushed. “I thought there was a chance you might want a visitor.”

“Who might that be, then?” At Hecate’s look of shock, she chuckled and patted the side of the bed. “I would be delighted if you would join me.”

Hecate poured them both a cup of tea, and slipped out of her shoes to slide under the eiderdown next to Ada. Ada leaned over carefully, on account of their cups of tea, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Did you sleep well?” Hecate asked Ada.

Ada smiled, smoothing her hand over Morgana’s fur from her forehead and down her back. “Like an infant. Did you?”

Hecate cleared her throat. “Not a wink, I’m afraid. I was— thinking of you.”

“You are awfully sweet,” Ada said, reaching over and tapping Hecate on the end of her long nose. Hecate was so surprised that she almost lost half her tea. “I think we should visit the Blossoms’ farm later in the week, to give my ankle some more time to heal.”

Hecate was still recovering from having her nose prodded, but at this last remark, her narrowed eyes softened. “Is it still painful?”

“Not particularly, but I imagine it’s still quite weak.”

Hecate brushed her fingers against Ada’s forearm lightly. “I’ll bring in some hot water for you to ease the discomfort.”

“You are a dear,” Ada glowed as she looked over at Hecate. Hecate pinked to the tip of her ears. “But before you do, there’s something I’d quite like to do.” 

Ada took Hecate’s teacup, and place both cups on the bedside table. Hecate was about to protest, when Ada silenced her with a kiss, that started off playful, and then evolved into tenderness, as Ada eased Hecate back onto the pillows.

“Sometime I’d love to see you with your hair down,” Ada whispered in her ear, stroking a loose wisp of a curl at her nape.

“I _have_ only just put it up—”

She knew what was coming next—Ada made her turn her back to her, while she let down her hair from the high bun—and soon it was pooling in Ada’s lap.

“Beautiful,” Ada breathed, and Hecate could feel as Ada let the waves flow through her hands. It might well have been worth the hassle of having to redo it later.

Hecate turned back to Ada, and the admiration on her face shone clearly—Hecate leaned forwards, her hair draping over Ada, and kissed her again. Ada slipped her hand under the curtain of hair and gently teased her fingers into the dark coils behind the sensitive skin of her ear.

“I wonder what our counterparts are doing right now,” Ada mused, raising her eyebrows at Hecate, evidently pleased with her handiwork.

Hecate gazed back at her, full of bliss. “I daresay they are having far less of a perfect morning than we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> sO this turned out being three times longer than i thought
> 
> quite a lot of research went into this!! but there are still probably some historical inaccuracies and slight hand-waving. surprisingly, a vegetarian diet is not one of these
> 
> miiiiiiiiiiiight be tempted to do a sequel since i know i didn't talk about the rest of ada's stay, nor what will happen After. please let me know if you'd like to see more!!


End file.
